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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29301438">The Poet and the Lyre</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflymind/pseuds/butterflymind'>butterflymind</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Music, uncomfortable situations</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:28:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,439</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29301438</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflymind/pseuds/butterflymind</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Oscar said he'd told Zolf what had happened when he tried to learn a musical instrument. Here are some of those stories.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Oscar Wilde/OMC, Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Longer ago than I care to remember, I said something on Tumblr about that line about musical instruments being a fic waiting to happen. Well I finally got around to happening to it. Not so much a tale of learning instruments, but more of encounters with them. It was originally going to be a five times fic, but became seven because I am nothing if not self indulgent.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Patience was not a virtue. They could tell him that until they were blue in the face, along with practise makes perfect and good things come to those who wait and whatever that ridiculous one about watched pots was. Patience might be a virtue for them, but he was Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde and he was good at things. Always. Right away and without all this ridiculous effort for no obvious gain. And he may only be twelve years old, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one. And this thing, this instrument of torture, was definitely one. </p>
<p>Oscar paused in his internal rant and thought over the last few sentences. ‘Instrument of torture’, he would have to write that one down for later use. He already had several notebooks hidden under his bed that contained all the phrases he was saving for his writing. He could see that taking its place in a music review; ‘In her hands, the lyre was not so much a musical instrument as an instrument of torture.’ He looked down ruefully at his own hands, aware that the same could be said of him. </p>
<p>It wouldn’t be so bad, if everyone didn’t expect him to be good at it. It was the singing, and the poetry. If you’ve got a good voice and you can write pretty words, you must be able to play music. It was flawed logic, Oscar could hear the tune, could sing it in an instant if that’s what they wanted, but when he tried to channel the same music through his fingers they just became clumsy and uncoordinated, almost wilfully unable to do his bidding. He sighed, replaced his hands in their starting positions, and tried again. Once more he made a few faltering steps along the stave before his fingers tripped over each other and landed in a discordant heap. He let out a rush of frustrated air.</p>
<p>“Ma, Oscar’s torturing the lyre again!” And there was Willy, his brother drawn like a moth to the flame of his humiliation. </p>
<p>“It’s torturing me!” He yelled back, even as he heard his mother calling to Willy to leave him alone and get back to his own lessons. </p>
<p>He had a point though. And what sort of stupid name was ‘lyre’ anyway? It was just a harp with stunted growth, good for prancing pretty boys but not for real artists. And he would be a real artist, he was certain of it, with no need for this stupid half formed harp. All he had to do was convince his parents to let him give it up. He could tell them he needed more time for his other lessons? His eyes cast around the room, falling finally on the small collection of textbooks he had brought home from school, half lost under the piles of more interesting books Oscar had acquired on his own. Mathematics, or geography, he would tell them he needed more time to study his academic subjects and that vague look of disappointment in his father’s eyes every time he talked of literature or poetry would make the lie slide down all the easier. His hands were still squeezing the lyre so he forced his grip to relax, and placed the instrument carefully in its case. Control, that was what he must learn. Far more important than music, or science, or even poetry. Let Willy try the lyre, Oscar was destined for greater things. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Dublin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I just think it would be good for you.”</p>
<p>“And I think it is the worst idea anyone has ever had.” Oscar folded himself into a ball in the armchair, wrapping his arms around his too long legs. </p>
<p>“Don’t sulk.”</p>
<p>“I’m not sulking.”</p>
<p>“Are you quite sure about that?” Siobhan asked with a gleam in her eye.</p>
<p>“Quite sure.” Oscar refused to give her the victory of meeting her gaze. He already knew what he would see there, the mocking and the pity. </p>
<p>‘That’s not fair’, the part of himself that was always interrupting remarked. And as ever Oscar had to grudgingly admit it was correct. Siobhan hadn’t shown any of that to him, and she’d taken Oscar on as a pupil when she didn’t have to, and there was precious little coin to pay her. She’d taken him on because she liked him, and thought he had talent that should be moulded in a useful direction. And here he was, being a brat and trying to sabotage himself. </p>
<p>“I’ve tried before.” He mumbled, unfolding himself with deliberate care.</p>
<p>“And it never occurred to you to try again?” Siobhan asked. She was still holding out the mandolin towards him.</p>
<p>“I tried and I failed.” Oscar shrugged. “Statistically, it had to happen sometime.”</p>
<p>“You must have been an adorable child.” Siobhan said dryly.</p>
<p>“I still am a child, technically.”</p>
<p>“I know.” Oscar scowled, he should have seen that one coming. In retaliation he took the mandolin from her hands.</p>
<p>“You will regret this.” He said as he turned it in his hands. It was small, yet still somehow overburdened with strings.</p>
<p>“I won’t.” Siobhan retorted. “Either you’ll learn, in which case I was right. Or you won’t, in which case I’ll see the great Oscar Wilde admit he can’t do something.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know what my mother sees in you.” Oscar muttered. His hand brushed across the strings. The noise they made was not unpleasant, it had a ringing quality that made each tone stand out as if lit from above. He did it again, more slowly, stopping to pluck each string as he went.</p>
<p>“She sees affordable tuition for her magically inclined offspring.” Siobhan said, reaching out to still his hands and then place his fingers. “Press down.” Oscar did, but clearly not to her satisfaction. “Harder than that, or they’ll buzz like a wasp.”</p>
<p>“Ow!” Oscar yelped, as the metal cut into his fingers.</p>
<p>“You’ll get used to it.” Siobhan replied, deeply unsympathetic. “Now let’s see what I can make of you.”</p>
<p>An hour later the mandolin was back in its case and Siobhan, who was wise enough to know a lost cause when she saw one, was back to putting a sour faced Oscar Wilde through voice exercises.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Oxford</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’re indolent.”</p>
<p>Oscar stretched, arching his back away from the bed and not bothering to reply. Which, he supposed, was an admission in itself. He pushed at the sheet half covering him, moving it further down his body. There was a glass by his left hand, half full of flat champagne they had begun drinking after the first round, and not finished before the second. He grasped it and swallowed the rest without bothering to sit up.</p>
<p>It was too warm in these rooms; the college heating had only two modes, off and on, which cycled with a six month regularity that took no heed of the actual temperature. An unseasonably warm autumn and a cool spring would have them boiling then freezing in turn. He turned himself onto his side, allowing the sheet to slip further in a provocative invitation he was only just learning to master.</p>
<p>“I’m exhausted.” He said to the man in the chair. Harry had put on his trousers, but not bothered with anything else. Or maybe he had never taken them off? Oscar could not rightly remember. He was sipping his own flat champagne with his feet drawn up onto the chair and Oscar studied his toes, sketching in his mind the words he would one day use to describe this scene. The line of Harry’s body in the chair, the scrunch of his toes in the soft velvet, the way the light played off his body and his violin, which he had apparently retrieved from its case while Oscar slept.</p>
<p>“You barely did any of the work!” Harry laughed, his fingers idly plucking at the strings, making half formed shapes on the neck of the instrument.</p>
<p>“Don’t underestimate the work I put in.” Oscar said with mock affront. “It takes a lot of effort to look like this.”</p>
<p>“You’re a bard, you can look like whatever you want.” Harry was smiling at him, eyes alight. Oscar waved a hand and cast a prestidigitation on himself, although it was more for Harry’s benefit. Harry, who was himself as magically inclined as a lump of lead, loved to watch all the little tricks and sparkles, and Oscar in turn had spent his time perfecting them for his benefit. It crossed his mind that Siobhan would be furious if she could see him now, wasting his talent on a golden-headed boy, performing parlour tricks just to make him smile. But then, if Oscar had ever worried about anyone else’s opinion of him he wouldn’t have Harry in his rooms right now, wouldn’t have the skills required to keep his beautiful eyes and long musician fingers all to himself. </p>
<p>“What do you think I should look like then?” Oscar asked, sitting up so he could lean towards Harry. “I’ve always rather fancied myself as a blond.” He hummed a snatch of melody and waved a hand, turning his hair the same straw gold as Harry’s, his eyes the same startling blue. He pretended to study Harry’s expression, although there was little to be read there other than the delighted grin he was putting on that beautiful face. “No?” He matched Harry’s smile and cast again. “Black then? Or white?” His hair flickered between ebony black and pure snow white. He frowned with mock consternation. “Oh Harry, not a redhead.” He waved his hand again, his face a picture of dismay.</p>
<p>“No, no!” Harry was laughing so much he could hardly speak, a flush spreading across his bare chest. “Go back to normal.” He said.</p>
<p>“Are you sure? It’s a very boring brown.” Oscar dropped the spell. Harry leant over and took his face in his hands, kissing him gently.</p>
<p>“I like you just the way you are.” He said softly, dropping kisses onto Oscar’s lips between the words. Then he sat back in the chair, picking up the violin from where he had carefully placed it on the side table. It was his prized possession, Oscar knew. He was paying for his education with it for a start, or at least, the musician scholarship was making up for the money Harry otherwise frittered away on luxuries. Oscar was fairly certain Harry’s family could afford his education regardless of any scholarship, but they probably wouldn’t have kept him in champagne, and they definitely wouldn’t have kept Oscar in it too. And it wasn’t the money really, Oscar knew. Harry was passionate about music, more passionate than some bards Oscar had met. And he was entranced by Oscar’s magic, which was gratifying in a way Oscar wasn’t used to feeling. </p>
<p>“You could do with some improvement, but I suppose you’ll do.” He replied, with a wicked smile he had spent some time perfecting. “Any chance I could entice you away from that instrument to get your hands round something more worthwhile?” Harry made a face.</p>
<p>“That was terrible.” He groaned. “And I have to practice, or I won’t be able to keep you in the style to which you are accustomed.” </p>
<p>“Certainly the style to which I wish to become accustomed.” Oscar replied. He grumbled, but wrapped the sheet around himself regardless. “Very well, minstrel. Entertain me.” Harry flicked the bow in his general direction, then placed it on the strings, testing its draw and slide. Oscar shut his eyes, expecting the sound of the violin to lull him back to sleep. A moment later, when no sound was forthcoming, he opened them again and found Harry looking at him speculatively.</p>
<p>“What?” </p>
<p>“Just had a thought.” Harry said. He took the violin from under his chin and held it and the bow out to Oscar. “You should play.”</p>
<p>“I can’t play.” Oscar said, more reasonably than he felt. “Never touched a violin in my life.”</p>
<p>“I bet you can.” Harry said, giving him the same soft smile that had, a moment ago, given Oscar pleasant shivers along the length of his spine. “Isn’t it part of your y’know... thingy?” He waved a hand vaguely up and down Oscar’s body. “Your magic.”</p>
<p>“Sort of?” Oscar was nonplussed, thrown from his drowsy state by this turn of conversation. It was natural enough, he supposed, certainly not the first time someone had made these sorts of assumptions about him. But there was something in Harry’s smile that he didn’t like, something that made the spontaneity of this feel like a lie. Different shivers chased down his backbone.</p>
<p>“Go on, give it go.” Numbly Oscar held out his hands and took the instrument. He tucked it under his chin and placed his hands and the bow as he had seen Harry do. Instinctively he felt for his magic, trying to channel it into his hands as he did when he sang. But the well, deep as it was, stubbornly refused to rise up from his core and be used. He drew the bow along the strings. At first there was nothing but a soft hiss, then as he pressed a little harder a horrifying buzz and rasp was emitted from the instrument. He stopped immediately.</p>
<p>“I have no idea what I am doing.” He admitted, the words foreign on his tongue.</p>
<p>“Give it another go.” Harry encouraged. His face was still open and smiling, but Oscar thought he could see a brittle expectation in his eyes. Oscar tried again, willing the magic in him to somehow take control of his hands. It was a foolish hope, he knew. It wasn’t how it worked; and if it did ever work that way you had far greater problems than an instrument you couldn’t play.</p>
<p>Yet he could still see the look on Harry’s face in front of his closed eyes. So he drew the bow again, this time much more firmly. There was more sound this time, first the rasping buzz and then a painful squeak that made Oscar’s eyes pop open and his hands to instinctively move the violin away from himself. </p>
<p>“I told you, not my thing.” Oscar said, handing the violin back and trying to bite down on his temper. Harry’s face was suddenly shuttered, and though still smiling a light had dimmed in his eyes. He wondered if he knew Oscar noticed such things.</p>
<p>“Fair enough.” Harry said, shrugging and bringing the instrument back to his own shoulder. As the flow of notes were coaxed out by Harry’s bow Oscar shut his eyes, and tried not to think about the music.</p>
<p>Harry wasn’t the last man he slept with at university. But he was certainly the last he allowed to stay for champagne afterwards, no matter who was paying.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Paris</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He should get a bonus for this. Oscar’s face, which had dropped into a scowl as he busied himself at the drinks cabinet, rearranged itself into the slightly vacant grin he was favouring his guest with.</p>
<p>“Here you go.” He said, offering a splash of half decent whiskey over ice. It was not a very good whiskey, but its taste was strong, and this was not the sort of man who would notice anyway. He sipped his own drink, something sweet and tropical and nothing like his usual taste, but good for the role he’d backed himself into. The cloying taste of pineapple and coconut coated his tongue, but he smiled through it. The man on the sofa would expect the boy he’d met in a Paris party to drink something like this, and he was close enough to finishing this mission that he wasn’t about to risk it all for the sake of one more cocktail.</p>
<p>“Nice place.” Alexandre said. Oscar doubted that was the name he had been born with, but then Oscar was called Lucas tonight, so it seemed like a no score draw. Alexandre had sweaty palms that he kept rubbing on his trousers in a way that made Oscar smug even as he winced. Alexandre was excited, and he had clearly never learned to hide his tells. Oscar on the other hand could have gone on the stage, if he didn’t have better things to do. </p>
<p>“It’s good enough for now.” He agreed, playing the social climber. Let Alexandre think that Lucas needed him, let him imagine all the power in this situation was on his side. Oscar moved to sit next to him on the sofa, the buttons he had undone while he was mixing drinks made his shirt gap at his throat as he swallowed. It was a cheap and tawdry move, and exactly what Alexandre expected from the man he was pretending to be.</p>
<p>“So you want to be a writer?” Alexandre had leant back into the sofa, his arm casually across the top of the cushions in an obvious invitation that Oscar chose not to take. ‘No,’ he reminded himself firmly. Lucas chose not to take it. Because Lucas was trying to be alluring, but he was also naive and serious about his career, and thought it was possible to make himself available to this man without being thought cheap. He wasn’t trying to lure a crooked theatre impresario who had been cheerfully embezzling the paltry amount of money the meritocrats gave to his theatres to line his own pockets. Lucas was an artist, Oscar was a man with a distasteful but necessary job to do. </p>
<p>“I think plays are the best way of expressing oneself.” He gave Alexandre the wide and genuine smile of a young man on his fifth pina colada. “I just want to immerse myself in theatre.” He gave a drunken flourish and pretended Lucas was the only one in his body who enjoyed it. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” </p>
<p>For a moment Oscar wondered if he’d overdone the wide-eyed ingénue. But no, Alexandre had the keen look of a predator sighting vulnerable prey. A drunken predator, and one who was halfway down that whiskey Oscar had given him. He wondered when precisely the potion he had slipped into the drink was going to work, and cursed himself for keeping costs down by using back street alchemists. The potion was on his newspaper expenses, not the meritocrats, and that was the problem. The newspaper kept him on a much tighter financial leash, but they didn’t care about his methods. The meritocrats on the other hand were more generous, but had a reputation to maintain that did not include supporting their agents in seducing and drugging members of high society.</p>
<p>Or at least, not being caught doing it, and certainly not doing it with their own money. This was the sort of job they turned a blind eye to; Oscar got a story for his paper and solved a problem for his handlers and everyone was happy. Or at least they would be, if Alexandre would just do the decent thing and fall unconscious. Trust him to get stuck with a man who resembled a dire bear in both constitution and appearance. He carefully did not flinch as Alexandre’s hand dropped from the back of the sofa to his shoulder, his fingers beginning to explore the back of his neck under his shirt collar. “How did you get into theatre?” Oscar blurted. Then winced as he remembered the answer to that question.</p>
<p>“Ah, I was a musician.” Alexandre reached behind him, to the garish silver guitar case Oscar had forgotten he’d brought with him into the flat. Mentally, Oscar banged Lucas’ head against a wall. They knew this, it had been in the file. Alexandre Manon had once been a mediocre guitarist in a theatre orchestra before a lucky windfall and a rare piece of wise decision making had got him out of the pit and into the far more lucrative world of theatre ownership. Oscar supposed it was inevitable that the higher the man rose in his new profession, the more he wanted to prove he was really an artist at heart. And so he had reached the appalling position of not only insisting on bringing his guitar to every party, but also having enough money and power to ensure everyone would listen to him play.</p>
<p>“It’s getting a little late...” Oscar started, but it turned out it was too late. On the bright side the hand exploring his collar was gone. However, that was because it was tuning a guitar.</p>
<p>“I will play for you.” Alexandre said, and true to his word he started before anything could be done to stop him. Oscar sighed and shut his eyes, arranging Lucas’ face into an expression he hoped looked rapturous and not bored. Five minutes more of this and he’d take the risk of casting sleep and hoping Alexandre didn’t notice. But, was the playing slowing? Becoming more clumsy? He risked opening an eye. </p>
<p>“Even better, I should teach you.” Alexandre was suddenly a lot closer than he was expecting.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry?” That was Oscar’s voice, not Lucas’, but it didn’t matter because Alexandre, looking sleepy but unnervingly determined, was already pulling him out of his seat and putting him in a dining chair, the guitar in his lap. </p>
<p>“Now.” Alexandre’s lips were uncomfortably close to Lucas’ ear, breathing heavily as he leant over him to position his hands on the neck and strings of the guitar. He was moving Lucas’ fingers, contorting them into an uncomfortable position and forcing them down onto the strings. Oscar had a brief flashback to his long ago lessons with Siobhan, and wondered what she would make of this. 
“Strum.” Alexandre said, his breath tickling Lucas’ cheek. Was he getting heavier, or was that just wishful thinking on Oscar’s part? Obediently he brushed his hand over the strings. The sound was... not unpleasant, but Alexandre immediately began contorting his fingers to another even more uncomfortable position. 
“Strum again.” He said. His voice was definitely getting slower, his arms heavy where they lay across Oscar’s shoulders. Oscar ran his hand across the strings again, and then for a third time after Alexandre changed his hand position. 
“Now do all three together.” The sentence was punctuated by a huge yawn. Oscar felt a stab of blind panic at this command, but at almost the same moment he felt Alexandre finally slump against his back, snoring softly in his ear.</p>
<p>“Oh, thank the Gods.” Oscar muttered as he gently slipped out of the man’s grasp and lowered the sleeping body to the floor. After a moments thought he gave him the guitar to cuddle while Oscar efficiently rifled his belongings for evidence. He found an appointment book, stuffed with a collection of almost laughably incriminating papers. One day, he would like a job that required a little more ingenuity. With a last glance at Alexandre, he gathered his belongings and left the flat. It was a useful apartment rented almost untraceably by the newspaper, mostly for operations just like this. When the door was firmly shut behind him he walked down the back staircase, dropping the illusion of Lucas’ face as he went, the colour of his eyes and hair changing as he worked the stiffness out of his shoulders from the slouch that had taken almost an inch off his height. Two masters satisfied, two pay checks earned, and Oscar left the building with a spring in his step.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Prague</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘Isn’t it quiet.’ The voice was mocking, a parody of a thing Oscar had said a thousand times with relief in his voice. Now it was snide, but it was at least still his own voice in his head. This would not be a good time to start hearing other people’s voices in his mind, regardless of the cause. And for all it was mocking, it also wasn’t wrong. It was quiet, and not the sort of silence that came with respite and expectation of things to come. This silence was an empty thing, the only sound the echoing question of what the hell he should do next. It was lucky he had decided to come back to Prague, he supposed, for a given value of luck. Even more lucky he had decided to take an old friend up on the offer of living in his barely furnished apartment while his friend was on tour in London. If it hadn’t been for that, he would have been in one of the meritocratic buildings that had so recently been redecorated as burning shells of brick and plaster by the rioting populous.</p>
<p>He was sitting on the piano stool, primarily because he had broken the only other chair in the room in a fit of rage he would never admit to a soul. He supposed his friend might have been angry, if he was ever coming back. Oscar had opened the lid of the piano in one of his more irrationally paranoid moments, and now he slammed his hand against the keys, taking vicious pleasure in the discordant crash of notes and relishing the sting of the blow as it travelled up his arm. For a moment the noise hung in the silence, then as it faded Oscar shook out his hand and grimaced, only for the movement to remind him that the cut on his face was barely healed. His little finger, he noticed, was still cramped and curled, the effect of punching someone when you weren’t used to it. There was probably some shape he was supposed to form with his hand that would have stopped the damage, but in the heat of the moment he’d struck out with a force borne of panic and anger, not training. Of course if he had not been so supremely overconfident walking into a situation he didn’t fully understand, and as if there wasn’t a lump of anti-magic metal hanging off his ankle and hobbling his senses, he wouldn’t have been punching anyone. And he wouldn’t have been appealing to Marie Curie, of all people, for help when the blood was still running into his mouth.</p>
<p>There was a knock on the door downstairs. Oscar sat up, suddenly alert, but remained as still and silent as he could. The apartment was up a narrow flight of stairs from the front door. A good defensive position, but not ideal if you wanted to make a run for it. There was a rickety metal fire escape outside one of the windows, but Oscar had barricaded that when he first limped back here after his interview with Curie, terrified of what might find its way in that way. He could take it down, but the noise would certainly alert whoever was at the door to what he was doing. He breathed slowly, in and out, and thought about his options. </p>
<p>“Wilde, let me in!” Well, that was the last voice Oscar was expecting to hear. He waited for a few seconds, wondering if he had finally started hearing another voice in his head. Although why it would be that voice of all he had known was a mystery for the ages. “Curie sent me.” The voice came again. Still there, still the same, still impossible. Oscar got up from the piano stool and crept down the stairs to the door. He paused at the threshold, touching the wood as if he could divine what was on the other side of it. “Wilde, is that you?” After this Oscar heard some muffled curses on his name, and he tried not to smile.</p>
<p>“How do I know you are who you say you are?” He called. In reply a note was pushed under the door, and he bent to pick it up. It had Curie’s magical seal, and a promise that it’s bearer had been in quarantine for a week at the university. Oscar still wasn’t convinced, but realised he had few options. If this man wasn’t who he said he was, he could be through the wooden door in five minutes, regardless of what Oscar wanted. With a sigh, he drew back the bolt and opened the door.</p>
<p>“There you are.” Zolf Smith, the first person yet to look better in this new world than he had when Oscar had last seen him, crossed the threshold and entered the narrow hall. Oscar retreated up the steps to give him room. </p>
<p>“Here I am.” He agreed. “Which begs an obvious question.” Zolf sighed, and dropped the bag he was holding. He already looked exasperated, which Oscar took as a personal record.</p>
<p>“What’s that Wilde?” He asked tiredly.</p>
<p>“Why have you come to find me?”</p>
<p>“Orders.” Zolf made a shooing motion. “Can we go upstairs? I’ve been in a cage for a week and then a meeting for an hour, and I’d like to sit down somewhere with actual furniture.”</p>
<p>“Ah, there may be bad news on that front.” Oscar led him up to the flat proper, and Zolf surveyed the piano stool and the ruined remains of the armchair.</p>
<p>“Did it pick a fight with you?” He asked, one eyebrow raised.</p>
<p>“I’d rather not talk about it.” Oscar said stiffly. Zolf snorted, but retrieved a half slashed cushion and sat on it on the floor. His legs made a clicking sound as he knelt, prosthetics Oscar assumed. For a moment Oscar stood in the middle of the room, before settling back on the piano stool, legs crossed, a clear five feet of space between them. </p>
<p>“Curie wants us to do a job. Together.” Zolf said without preamble. It was Oscar’s turn to raise an eyebrow at that.</p>
<p>“Why?” </p>
<p>“That’s a very good question.” Zolf, who had been looking at his hands where they rested on his knees, looked up at him for the first time with a glint in his eye. “I did try to talk her out of it.”</p>
<p>“What’s the job?”</p>
<p>“Japan.” Oscar’s eyebrow climbed further up his face.</p>
<p>“Excuse me?”</p>
<p>“I’ve been following the weather.” Zolf was looking at his hands again, lost in his own thoughts. “Whatever’s going on, that’s probably where it’s coming from. Curie reckons...” he paused, breathed in and out. “Curie thinks that we should go there, together, and investigate it. See how it’s tied into this whole thing.” He waved his arm to vaguely encompass the city, the world. “It was something that Hamid and that lot were going to do before...” He stopped again, took another breath. “Well, you know about all that.” Oscar tipped his head in acknowledgement.</p>
<p>“Why didn’t she tell me this herself?” He asked. He was still wary, but the grief in Zolf when he spoke of Hamid and the others had been deep, Oscar could see that from here.</p>
<p>“She said her thing... her sending.” Zolf wiggled his fingers near his hairline as if this was some sort of explanation. “Wasn’t getting through.” His hair was snow white, Oscar suddenly realised, his beard too. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed before.</p>
<p>“Well, that’s hardly surprising.” Oscar replied, but didn’t elaborate further. He changed the subject, indicating Zolf’s hair. “That’s a bold fashion choice you’ve made there.” </p>
<p>“Yeah well, lot of things have changed.” Zolf replied shortly. He was examining Oscar’s face closely. “Do you need healing?” Unbidden Oscar’s hand flew to the barely healed wound. It burned at the touch.</p>
<p>“Ah, no.” He paused. “All that can be done has been done.”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t look like it.” Zolf got up and moved towards him, and Oscar flinched back involuntarily. His back hit the piano keyboard and a discordant shower of notes rang out. Zolf stepped back as the sound died away in the empty flat. “Ok, no healing, I got it.” He approached again, more slowly. “Are you taking care of it, though? It looks deep.”</p>
<p>“I’m doing fine.” Oscar forced himself not to touch his face again. The truth was he’d barely looked at it since the last time he had been at the university. Faced with a problem they couldn’t heal with magic, the healers there had floundered. He could have gone to a temple he supposed, but his trust even in them was lessening by the day.</p>
<p>“Doesn’t look like it.” Zolf moved towards him again, slower this time. Oscar, trapped between him and the piano, sat rigid, but did not move away. A detached part of himself wondered if this was his trust in Curie’s methods, or just a newly acquired death wish at work.  Zolf reached up a hand to his face and he stayed frozen while rough calloused fingers poked at the wound.</p>
<p>“Who healed this?” He asked, and the irritation in his voice was so breathtakingly mundane that Oscar almost laughed. </p>
<p>“The university healers.” Zolf tutted, and muttered under his breath about academics never knowing what they were about. He probed at Oscar’s face again, none too gently, and then reached into the bag over his shoulder to retrieve some supplies.</p>
<p>“Take away their magic and they’re worse than useless.” He said. He began cleaning out the wound afresh, and Oscar woke from his reverie at the sting of the liquid.</p>
<p>“Ow!” He tried to pull his face back and again hit his back on the piano keyboard. As the sound died away it revealed Zolf’s dry chuckle. His hand reached out and gripped Oscar’s chin. </p>
<p>“Stay still.” Oscar grimaced, but did as he was told. Zolf was hardly gentle in his ministrations, but he was efficient. Oscar watched the emotions flit over his face as he worked. Mostly concentration, sometimes a flicker as he found grit the university healers had missed.  He grimaced as he realised what Oscar already knew, that the path of the wound took it down through the nerves of his face. He was forever lopsided, and already resigned to learning to live with it.</p>
<p>“I’m hoping to pass it off as a conversation piece.” He said to break the sudden mood. Zolf snorted, but instead of offering a reply he continued to clean and fuss with the wound until he was satisfied.</p>
<p>“You’ll do.” He said at last, leaning back. Oscar began to probe at his work but Zolf none too gently slapped his fingers down. “Leave it alone.”</p>
<p>“Just curious.”</p>
<p>“I could get you a mirror.” Zolf offered. Oscar thought he had managed to repress the shudder at that suggestion but obviously Zolf had seen something. To his credit, he avoided even the faintest sense of pity. “But I don’t want to be here all day.” It was a lame joke, but it did its job in breaking another sudden bubble of tension.</p>
<p>“When do we leave?” Oscar asked. He stood up from the piano stool, suddenly yearning for movement, or at least to move outside the circle of Zolf’s attention.  </p>
<p>“Soon as we can.” Zolf replied, stowing his supplies, apparently unfazed by Oscar’s sudden burst of energy.</p>
<p>“Now?”</p>
<p>“There’s a boat sailing tonight. Curie said someone would meet us with further instructions.” Oscar frowned.</p>
<p>“What if I hadn’t been ready to leave?” He asked. The question was a moot one, he was already gathering his few possessions from the flat, and stuffing them into the travelling bag he had arrived in Prague with. Zolf shrugged.</p>
<p>“She said you would be.”</p>
<p>“The nerve of that woman.” Oscar grumbled. He slipped his hand into his coat pocket, checking for the key to the shackles. He wondered, not for the first time, at the power of the wishful thinking that kept that little key always in his pocket. “Always assuming you’re ready to jump to at a moment’s notice.”</p>
<p>“She reminds me of someone.” Zolf said drily, watching Oscar pack the last of his things and swing the bag over his shoulder.</p>
<p>“I can’t think who you mean.” Oscar replied, gesturing Zolf down the stairs ahead of him and onto whatever came next.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Japan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Drink?” It was an absurdly inadequate question for the situation, but Oscar asked anyway, because he had learned there was little else they could do.</p>
<p>“Yes please.” Barnes continued to be as unfailingly polite as he had been all week. Oscar found it slightly unnerving, it was not normal for a man you’ve locked in a cage for seven days to continue to mind his Ps and Qs around you. Military training, Oscar supposed. Howard grunted an acknowledgement, which was more what Oscar had been expecting, and he didn’t ask them what they wanted before pouring them something local and strong. He was a terrible host these days, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care. Nothing like the end of the world to reframe your priorities when it came to the social graces. And if that didn’t do it, try living with Zolf Smith for six months. </p>
<p>“So.” Oscar started and then faltered. Conversational topics stretched out before him like mines buried in the sand.</p>
<p>“Curie sent you then?” Zolf cut in. Oscar wasn’t sure if it was intended to save him, or just Zolf leaping without looking into a lull in conversation. Howard didn’t bother dignifying it with a response, but Barnes nodded.</p>
<p>“Yes. Well, technically I’m still serving in the navy.” He gave Zolf an almost guilty look as he said it. “But it seemed like I could do more good with you lot than with the meritocratic forces.” Out of the corner of his eye, Oscar saw Zolf’s lip twitch.</p>
<p>“Everyone’s serving two masters these days.” Zolf said levelly. His eyes flicked to Oscar and back again. “At least.”</p>
<p>“We like to think of it as diversification.” Oscar relaxed slightly. At least one of them was willing to talk, and that was better than most when they were let out of the cage. “What about you Howard? Who are you serving these days?” Oscar only realised the innuendo after the fact, when he felt Zolf tense beside him, and was quietly appalled with himself.</p>
<p>“Myself, as ever, Oscar.” Howard returned. His hands were more scarred than Oscar remembered them being, and looked as if they had been licked by flame and poorly healed. Scars were becoming more frequent on everyone he saw, which did not seem to bode well for the direction of the war. “Just doing your academic friends a little favour.” The baldness of the lie almost gave it charm, but all Oscar said was;</p>
<p>“I hope they’re paying you well.” </p>
<p>“I’m getting my dues.” Howard replied. He drank deeply from his cup and held it out for another. “This is good stuff.”</p>
<p>“It wiles away the evenings.” Oscar agreed, pouring drink into Howard’s empty cup and topping up the rest at the same time. He could feel Zolf’s eyes on him as he did it;  it was amazing how six months isolated with someone could make you quite so attuned to their disapproval. </p>
<p>Behind them, he could hear the sounds of the locals moving the scant bar furniture. Generally he and Zolf didn’t spend much time in the public bar of the evenings, what drinking and talking they had to do was better done in the cramped confines of Oscar’s tiny office. It was generally more of the former than the latter, which could not have suited Oscar better. It turned out that if you didn’t want to talk about something, Zolf Smith was the ideal companion. </p>
<p>He half turned to better see what they were doing; they’d cleared a space and laid a musical instrument Oscar had previously noticed leaning against a wall on the floor. A woman was sat on a reed mat behind it, and she plucked the strings, listening and adjusting. Finally satisfied she began to play. It was a fine, almost hollow, sound. Like a cousin to the long ago mandolin in Oscar’s memory, but somehow fuller, cutting through the air like a dull blade. He realised that he had heard it before, drifting up from the bar and around the inn, but had only ever given it half an ear.</p>
<p>“Koto.” Howard said between sips of his drink, and without turning around. “Japanese harp... thing.” He waved the hand not holding his cup in a vague shape, as if the gesture might be somehow illustrative. </p>
<p>“I thought you’d never been to Japan?” There was suspicion in Zolf’s voice. Oscar approved of it, any unexpected knowledge was a cause for concern, but Howard didn’t seem to notice.</p>
<p>“They had them in the British Museum.” He said, as if that should explain everything. “Saw them being played once.”</p>
<p>“Right.” Zolf didn’t look entirely convinced and he shared a glance with Oscar, who shrugged. It wasn’t an unreasonable explanation, but that didn’t make it any more likely to be a true one. He returned Zolf’s glance with a look he hoped would be interpreted as ‘watch and wait’.  </p>
<p>“I did!”. Howard was instantly defensive. “Look, we’ve just spent a week locked up in your little cage, isn’t that enough?”</p>
<p>“Can’t be too careful.” Zolf said shortly. He had been unimpressed with Howard for the week he’d spent watching him pace the anti-magic cell, and he didn’t seem any better disposed to him now he was out.</p>
<p>“We’ve learnt the hard way. I’m sure you have as well.” Oscar was a lot less adept at peacemaking these days, out of both practise and practice as he was, but he tried nonetheless. Barnes for his part was nodding with serious understanding. Howard subsided, but grumpily. They sat in silence, letting the music fill the gaps between them. </p>
<p>“Surprised you haven’t had a go Oscar.” Howard said, breaking the tension between them.</p>
<p>“Had a go at what?” Wilde was genuinely puzzled. Beside him Zolf had tensed again, although about what this time Oscar couldn’t say.</p>
<p>“The Koto. You’ve been here months, surprised you haven’t tried it.” </p>
<p>“Why would I have?”</p>
<p>“Well, you’re a bard type aren’t you? Should be bread and butter to you.” He knew it was psychosomatic, but still Oscar felt the chain at his ankle burn.</p>
<p>“I’m not much of an instrumentalist.” He said, sipping his drink to cover any sort of expression that might slip out.</p>
<p>“And we’ve been busy.” Zolf added, a touch more forcefully than was probably necessary. “We haven’t just been sitting on our arses for six months.” Howard raised a hand in a gesture equal parts placating and mocking.</p>
<p>“Just a friendly question.” He said, “no need to bite my head off.”</p>
<p>“It’s very soothing.” Everyone turned to look at Barnes who blinked, startled. “I mean the music.”</p>
<p>“It’s lovely.” Oscar agreed automatically, still glancing between Howard and Zolf, waiting for trouble. There were looks that strayed dangerously close to glares still being shared across the table, but they seemed to have simmered down for now.</p>
<p>“Do they do this often?” It took a long blink for Oscar to realise that Barnes was still asking about the music, and not Zolf and Howard. He cast a glance at the sailor and realised that he was trying to steer the conversation to safer ground. Oscar gave him a hint of a smile in thanks.  </p>
<p>“We don’t often come down to the bar in the evenings, but I think I’ve heard it fairly regularly.”</p>
<p>“”It’s nice.” Barnes looked a little lost, now that most of his conversation about the music had been used up. “and you don’t play anything yourself?” Oscar fought to keep his sigh internal.</p>
<p>“No. Never really had the time to learn.” </p>
<p>“Oh.” Barnes seemed surprised, but recovered quickly. “I suppose you’re always quite busy in your line of work?” He said this doubtfully, and Oscar couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him.</p>
<p>“Yes, always.” Zolf was staring at the side of his head, he could feel the raised eyebrow without turning round. </p>
<p>“Oscar used to work for the meritocrats.” Howard put in helpfully. “Among all his other... duties.” </p>
<p>“Oh, ok.” If anything, Barnes sounded more confused than before. Oscar sighed.</p>
<p>“I used to be a journalist.” He said. Zolf choked on his drink. Barnes reached round to pat him firmly on the back.</p>
<p>“Are you alright Mr Smith?” He asked in genuine concern.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m fine.” Zolf replied, still spluttering. </p>
<p>“How did a journalist end up working for the meritocrats?” Barnes was still hovering around Zolf as if hoping there was more assistance he could provide. Zolf was doing his best to wave him off, with limited success.</p>
<p>“I did a little freelance work on the side. Information, mainly, all very dull.” </p>
<p>“Dull was it?” Zolf would have to invest in scaffolding for those eyebrows if they got any higher.</p>
<p>“Well, it had its moments.”</p>
<p>“I bet it did.” That was Howard, who could sense a pot to stir from several miles away. The alcohol was clearly beginning to do its work on him, his cheeks were flushed, his body language more the open loucheness Oscar remembered from their last meeting and less the hunched and angry man who’d emerged from the cell that afternoon. Barnes looked between them, his own eyebrows twitching as he tried to read the room.</p>
<p>“I get the feeling I’m missing something here.”</p>
<p>“Nothing important.” Zolf replied shortly. Oscar had given him the broad strokes of his history with Howard Carter when they had first been told he was coming. They had been very broad strokes, and watching this he was certain that more details would have done nothing to help the situation. The music was still floating around them, a soothing counterpoint to the tension at the table. Oscar found himself concentrating on it, the unfamiliar intervals and cadences that reminded him he was half a world away from everything he knew. His musical training was enough for him to recognise how it was constructed, even if he could never have duplicated it with his own fingers. He mused distractedly on if there would ever be time and a reason for him to learn about the music and stories of this island and its people, the way he used to when he travelled for pleasure. Someone said his name and he realised with a start that he had drifted off mid conversation.</p>
<p>“Sorry?”</p>
<p>“I said it might be time to go back upstairs.” Zolf said, looking pointedly at their empty cups. Instinctively Oscar began to reach for the bottle, but the tiniest head-shake from Zolf stayed his hand.</p>
<p>“I’d certainly like to sleep in a proper bed.” Barnes said, stretching. </p>
<p>“Zolf can show you your rooms.” Oscar said, still shaking off his daydreaming.</p>
<p>“I don’t mind if you want to show me to mine Oscar.” Howard was swaying slightly, Oscar had forgotten what a lightweight he was. It took him a second to register what Howard was saying, and he marvelled at himself for a moment. He sometimes wondered in his darker moments if the person he had once been, when confidence was at his core and not a veneer he pulled over himself to cover his fear and the well of hopelessness that grew deeper every day, would ever return. This was the first time it had occurred to him that he might not want that person back.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid I have a few things to finish. Zolf, do you mind?” </p>
<p>“Not at all.” Zolf gave him a grin it felt good to receive. Camaraderie, as it turned out, wasn’t so bad after all.</p>
<p>“Ok then.” Howard sounded more than a little put out. Oscar mentally shrugged. He’d get over it. Or not remember it. They headed towards the door that lead from the bar into the inn proper, and then up the narrow staircase to the rooms he and Zolf had commandeered as their own. Zolf continued on, leading Barnes and Howard to the rooms that would be theirs, while Oscar peeled off into his own small office. Some time later there was a familiar soft tap at his door.</p>
<p>“Good evening.” He said to the door as it swung open, and revealed Zolf backlit by the lamps in the corridor. </p>
<p>“Evenin’” Zolf came in without asking and settled himself in the chair on the other side of Oscar’s desk. Oscar damped down the bubble of relief that he had appeared as usual, chasing away his worry that Barnes and Howard’s arrival would change everything in their routines.</p>
<p>“Well.” Oscar put down his pen and capped it with deliberate movements. Then he reached into his desk drawer to retrieve his precious half bottle of whiskey and two glasses. There was no conversation as he poured, or when he handed the glass to Zolf. There didn’t need to be.</p>
<p>“What do you think?” Zolf asked, when his drink was safely in his hand.</p>
<p>“Of our new recruits? Barnes is an asset, if a strait-laced one. Howard is Howard.”</p>
<p>“Does that make him an asset or a liability?”</p>
<p>“Most likely both by turns.” Oscar sighed, and drummed his fingers on the table. Zolf’s eyes followed the movement. “I don’t like to judge anyone by what they were before all this started...”</p>
<p>“Probably a good thing.” Zolf cut in dryly.</p>
<p>“But I suspect Howard is in it for the betterment of Howard.” Oscar finished, ignoring Zolf’s comment with as much dignity as he could muster.</p>
<p>“Do you think that’s going to help us?”</p>
<p>“I think for now, if he’s not blue-veined, he’s probably better off with us as anywhere else.” Zolf grunted. “He does have useful skills.”</p>
<p>“I know, I just don’t like alliances of convenience.” Oscar raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly between them. “You know what I mean.” Zolf said gruffly, staring down into his drink. When he looked up, there was a twitch of a grin on his face. “So, are you going to be learning the Koto?” Oscar rolled his eyes.</p>
<p>“I wasn’t joking when I said I wasn’t an instrumentalist.”</p>
<p>“And here was me thinking that was false modesty.”</p>
<p>“From me?” Oscar exaggerated his offended tone. It had the desired effect, Zolf cracked a proper smile. </p>
<p>“Not like you to admit you can’t do something either.” He said. Oscar tilted his head to one side, pretending to consider this. </p>
<p>“That’s true.” He conceded. “But in this case even I have had to admit defeat.”</p>
<p>“You’ve tried then?” </p>
<p>“Many times.” Oscar gave a theatrical sigh. “Trust me Mr Smith, my soul may understand music but my fingers most certainly do not.” Zolf gave a snort of laughter, and Oscar felt a flush of warmth. He wondered why it was so addicting to entertain him. His love of an audience he supposed, finding its way out through his only companion. And that audience, he realised, was giving him a narrow eyed look. </p>
<p>“You can’t be that bad.” He said. Oscar laughed.</p>
<p>“The trail of musical destruction in my wake says otherwise.”</p>
<p>“Now you are definitely exaggerating.”</p>
<p>“Broken strings and broken hearts.” Oscar said lightly. “Let me tell you about the time I actually made someone unconscious with my playing.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure that was what did it?” Zolf took another sip of his drink. “You weren’t talking at the same time by any chance?”</p>
<p>“I’m so glad you take the time of an evening to insult me.” </p>
<p>“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”</p>
<p>“Well, that’s probably for the best.” Oscar tipped his drink towards Zolf and they shared an ironic toast.</p>
<p>“So go on then.” Zolf said after silence had stretched between them for a few moments.</p>
<p>“Go on what?”</p>
<p>“You promised me stories about your total inability to do something. I’m all ears.”</p>
<p>“I don’t think that’s exactly what I said.” Oscar protested, but he settled back into his chair and adopted something he would call his storytelling pose, if he were any more affected than he already was. Zolf relaxed into his own chair, and there was that warm flush again as he smiled. “But if you insist. It all began when my parents, with what can only be described as epically misguided optimism, bought me a lyre.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Considering how much furniture they were still missing, between lost shipments and storage rooms that had not survived the war, the piano seemed almost comically out of place in the almost empty room. It was a dramatic flourish not lost on Oscar, who remembered another room some time ago where the piano stool was the only furniture fit to sit on. And it wasn’t even as if they owned the blasted thing. Or at least, they hadn’t brought it with them. A note hastily scrawled by the departing former owners of their house owned up to some deficiencies in their cleaning, and the fact there was a piano in the garden shed they hadn’t bothered to take with them. Oscar would have happily left it there to become charmingly dilapidated. But Zolf had got that look about him, and also had both the strength and magical prowess to pull off a piano relocation with relatively little assistance. So now here it was, an upright piano of indeterminate age and pedigree, taking up a wall in what Oscar had been hoping to claim as his study. It wasn’t even aesthetically pleasing; the keys were yellowing and the wood had developed a patina that Oscar was relatively sure spoke of years in some tavern somewhere, a sheen only developed by exposure to eighty years of smoke, beer, and neglect. </p>
<p>Still, the piano tuner Zolf had somehow dug up from the nearest town and convinced to come out here, at a cost Oscar probably didn’t want to know about, had declared it sound after much sucking of teeth and tapping of sound boards. He had replaced some felt and tuned it to an acceptable temperament, and had left with a smile and pocket full of gold, probably thinking fondly of a six monthly repeat of this little transaction. </p>
<p>Oscar’s hands stole without his volition to the keys. He pressed one experimentally, and found the sound not unpleasant. Not the great resonant ringing of the pianos he had heard in concert halls, but something softer, slightly sweet, and fitting the room. He tried another, then another, and then experimentally a row of five. His ear was still good enough to recognise a C when he heard one, and moving in threes and fives he explored the keyboard. He picked out a tune with two fingers, sometimes slipping and swearing. He stopped when he reached the end of what he could remember and looked at his hands on the keys, surprised as he still was by the lack of scars and marks on them, the perfect stretch of the little finger he had damaged in a punch so long ago.</p>
<p>“You should learn.” He jumped at the voice behind him, and turned to find Zolf leaning on the door frame, arms crossed over his chest.</p>
<p>“How long have you been there?” Zolf didn’t answer, just unfolded his arms and approached him instead, laying his hands on Oscar’s shoulders when he reached the piano.</p>
<p>“You should learn.” He repeated. Oscar took his hands off the keyboard.</p>
<p>“No time for that.”</p>
<p>“Yes there is.” Zolf argued gently. His hands squeezed Oscar’s shoulders, rubbing tension from them, and Oscar leaned into his warmth. “You’ve got plenty of time now. All we have is time.” His hands massaged harder as he said it, and Oscar tried to turn and look into his face. </p>
<p>“The advantage of saving the world I suppose.” He said lightly. His hand moved back to keyboard, touching the keys but not pressing down. “The world quite literally owes us a living.”</p>
<p>“It certainly owes us some bloody peace.” Zolf’s hands stopped massaging and slipped round Oscar’s chest, his chin resting on his shoulder.</p>
<p>“Well, you won’t get that if you encourage me to learn an instrument.” Oscar said. His hand reached out to form a chord, deliberately wrong. The noise was sharp and discordant, but Zolf moved so his hand could fall over Oscar’s and rearrange his fingers to the correct shape. Oscar looked at him in surprise.</p>
<p>“You learn a few things on long nights at sea.” Zolf said simply. He leaned back, pressing a kiss to Oscar’s cheek as he did so. “Now when the great maestro has a minute, he might want to get back to helping me unpack these boxes.”</p>
<p>“I thought we had all the time in the world?”</p>
<p>“We do. But we don’t have that long before dinner. And if you want any you’re going to have to help me find whatever box the utensils disappeared into.” As Zolf spoke he was already heading back towards the door, confident as ever that Oscar would follow. With a final flourish of notes, almost but not quite what he had intended, Oscar did.</p>
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